


Short Leash

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Collars, Control, Dom/sub, F/M, Future Fic, Masturbation, Missionary Position, Mistress, Scars, Secret Relationship, Size Kink, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa keeps the Hound on a short leash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Short Leash

Sansa keeps the Hound on a short leash. She doesn't like it when he's too far away from her. As the Captain of her guard, it's his job to protect her, of course, but she depends on him for more than that. Let people whisper what they will. The Lady of Winterfell will have her way.

Despite the hot springs that warm the castle, she shivers in her room at night. When she calls him, he's there in an instant, ready to serve. She strokes his hair as he kneels at her bedside.

He's nothing like the knights out of stories she idolized when she was a girl. He's burned and scarred and his words aren't polished. He can be cruel, too honest and too cruel. But his touch is soft and he understands what she needs.

"Cold, my lady?" It's hard for her to speak her desires aloud, but with Sandor, she doesn't need to. She nods, making room for him to join her in the big bed.

He lifts her like she weighs nothing at all, turns her over onto all fours. She presents for him, opening her thighs just a little. She closes her eyes as he gets into position, waiting for the moment she knows will come. His huge hands are on her hips, steadying them both.

The head of his cock slips along her damp slit, teasing her until she can't wait any longer. "Do it!" she moans.

She can hear the smile in his voice. "Is that an order, my lady?"

"Oh, ohh… No, not an order." He's right at her entrance now, and she aches so badly for him to be inside her, but it's part of the routine. She needs to believe that he needs it too. "Please," Sansa whispers, "if you want me, then take me."

"I do want you," he says, and buries himself inside her with a thrust that makes them both gasp. It's a tight fit, as always, and she muffles her cries in the pillow as he draws back slowly, then pushes into her again. Soon her legs can't bear up under his pounding and she's flattened on the mattress, bucking her hips back against his as hard as she can.

"Put me on top," she begs after a while, yearning for release. On top is hard for both of them. Hard for him to feel her eyes on his ugliness. Hard for her because she always wants to touch his scars, to kiss his burned cheek and heal him somehow, and she knows she can't. But he does as she asks, rolling over onto his back and helping her atop him.

She holds his thick shaft in her delicate hand, feels the pulse of his heart beating. She lowers herself onto him, willingly taking what he can give her. Her breasts jiggle as she rides him, so she cups one in each hand. He mostly stays still and lets her use him, until he can't help it anymore and brings his thumb to graze against her clit, rocks his hips in time with her bouncing, faster and faster until she covers her mouth with her hands and clenches her thighs tight, her inner walls spasming around him.

He's not allowed to come inside her, so he doesn't, though it's hard sometimes. Tonight, however, she curls up beside him and murmurs against his only remaining ear, "I want to watch you finish." Obliging her, he takes himself in hand, stroking quick and rough. The skin is still slick with her juices, and she's right there against him, warm flesh and blood, not some phantom of the imagination he's conjured up to fuel his fire. He knows her eyes are on his face as he comes, a thick stream of cream geysering over the back of his hand, but at that moment he doesn't mind.

When he's finished, she sings for him, because she knows he likes that. He falls asleep curled at the foot of her bed, one hand on the leather collar she gave him, the other under his head. Her faithful Hound.


End file.
